


Lost an Entire Wednesday

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, dark fantasies, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:25:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John discovers the world of fanfiction and is more than a little appreciative. When Sherlock finds the fic on John’s computer, it gets even more interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Thursdays](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173006) by [Besina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besina/pseuds/Besina). 



> The fic mentioned in this piece is pretend. Besina (who is amazing) is writing a fabulous, but evil johncroft non-con called 'Thursdays'. I have been wanting to write fic in which John and Sherlock come together after one or the other discover fanfic, so I twisted the idea of her 'Thursdays', to this pretend fic, 'Wednesdays'. I am not following anything particular in her fic other than the drugging and forgetting once a week. There are several nods to 'Thursdays' in here.
> 
> Between her fic, the comment in TSoT that Sherlock drugs John and he lost an entire Wednesday once, my love of non-con, (but need for our boys to be consensual and happy), and some weird psychology on rape fantasies applied to John’s “not gay” identity, this craziness was born.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the result.
> 
> Thanks to Besina for letting me write this and mention her fic.
> 
> Many thanks also to RJ (Abacura), Christyimnotred, Shellysbees, letalkingmime, type_40_consulting_detective and rinwolfe for all their help!

John blinked and yawned. Had he fallen asleep in his chair? He felt lightheaded. His mouth was parched. Everything was too loud and too bright. Could it just be a terrible hangover? 

He didn’t recall drinking anything. And there was no headache, thank God for small favors. He pushed himself up, or rather tried to sit up and stretch, but soon realized he couldn’t. His arms were trapped. 

_Shit._

“Sherlock!” He cried out, suddenly alert and taking in his predicament. Still in the flat. That could be good. At least he knew where he was. No trying to sort what abandoned warehouse they’d been dragged off to this time. And certainly people stopped by from time to time. Chances of rescue or discovery were high. Naked. That was less good. Probably distinctly bad, in fact.

“Oh good, you’re coming around, John,” the rich baritone voice intoned behind him. He didn’t sound alarmed in the slightest. In fact, he sounded excited, like when he had just discovered a particularly interesting case.

Thank God, Sherlock was here. They could get out of anything together. As he wasn’t distressed, he had probably worked it out already, then.

But John’s relief was short lived, confusion and cold fear returning as Sherlock continued, "I always prefer when you are awake for me.” 

_Always… for me…_

“Sherlock, what are you talking about? Why am I tied up?”

“Don’t worry, John.” Sherlock whispered soothingly, stepping close enough to stroke a gentle hand down the doctor’s back. “You won’t remember a thing in the morning. You never do.” 

_Always... never._ John began to struggle in his bonds, trying desperately to get free. “Christ, Sherlock, what have you done?” 

“Nothing much, today,“ Sherlock said, reaching around to drag his fingers slowly up John’s inner thigh, cupping his balls lightly, “But it is early yet.”


	2. Chapter 2

_May 25_  
7:10 PM  
Sherlock sat puzzled and uncomfortably aroused.

Surely it wasn’t at all acceptable to feel this way after reading _that_.

Did John write this? It sounded nothing like his other work. Then again, fiction was often different. If one could distinguish between John’s blog and fiction.

A quick glance at the document information made it clear. 50,000 words written entirely out of Sherlock’s sight? Physically impossible at John’s rate of typing. Even excluding time for the creative process, John would still need a month, and this was only created a week ago.

But if he didn’t write it, he at least saved it.

In a locked folder. 

With other pornography.

Sherlock suddenly understood why it wasn’t always good to be able to find a way in. Some things were locked for a reason.

And now he wasn’t sure he would be able to let this go.  
\---  
 _May 17  
2:45 PM_

It was a lark. John hadn’t been paying complete attention to be honest. Mike made an offhand comment about someone shipping something or other and Molly blushed to the roots of her hair. Doubtful they were talking about the post. 

“Thought that was for superheroes and movie stars,” Mike mused. “Never imagined anyone would see people I know that way, but I suppose if they’ve seen you...” 

Molly practically squeaked, batting at his arm. They were never going to be more than friends, but the occasional flirt never hurt anything. A little awkward to watch, though. John cleared his throat.

When Mike finally wandered back to his office, John turned to Molly. ”What exactly was he on about?” 

“You don’t know?” she stammered, “I... I don’t really have anything to do with _them_ , I had just noticed lately that there are a lot of… well, fans, I guess… It might be easier to show than tell,” she said, walking over to her computer and bringing up an archive of some sort. She typed a few words and let John settle at her computer for a few minutes and went back to her work. 

_Fascinating._

There were loads of couples, some pulled from names on the blog and others made up entirely. He couldn’t help but notice there were quite a few that involved Sherlock and Molly herself. But the most works of art and fiction were dedicated to Sherlock and him. 

“Why would people write about us?”John laughed. Part of him wanted to be angry or defensive, the same way the tabloids made him feel with their insinuations, but this seemed somehow different. He wasn’t quite offended. More perplexed. He certainly wouldn’t want dear Molly to feel bad about showing him. He had asked, after all. 

“Why does anyone write anything? People write about rock stars, characters in novels. Anything, really.”

“I suppose _I_ write about us, so it shouldn’t really surprise me.” John shook his head in wonder as he poked around, scanning through tags and warnings, skimming summaries. It seemed that anything was fair game. 

“I’m just going to pop out for a moment. Coffee?”

“Ta. Sounds good,” John said, his eyes never leaving the screen. “With _Mycroft?_ Really?”

Now it was Molly’s turn to laugh. 

When she returned, John took the paper cup, thanking Molly for the coffee and the laugh, before he picked up the package for Sherlock. He set off for home, cringing slightly at the unknown experiment that would involve a dozen miscellaneous ears.  
\---

_May 17  
4:05 PM_

John tried to let it go. Lord help him, he tried. He made a grocery list on the back of a receipt to keep his mind occupied. When he arrived home, he posted it on the refrigerator, before putting the ears in the experiment drawer or, as most people called it, the crisper. He sorted through mail, but there was nothing of real interest. He glanced at the newest medical journal, but nothing captured his attention. 

Eventually, he made a nice strong cup of tea and settled on the couch. He attempted to watch telly, but he just couldn’t concentrate on that either. His mind kept drifting back to the site. He knew it was silly, shuddered inwardly at the thought of anyone finding him reading it, but somehow curiosity got the better of him. He flipped open his laptop and typed in the url. Once he started reading, he just couldn’t stop, no matter how uncomfortable some of the stories made him. Some were quite dark, but intriguing. 

John could never quite pinpoint why he had clicked on that damn story to begin with. The whole thing seemed centered on Sherlock drugging and buggering him. _Honestly?_ He balked. Once he had clicked on it, though, he couldn’t stop reading. The dialogue in particular was dead-on. Almost distressingly so. He could hear Sherlock’s voice in his head as he read. It made it better. 

And worse.

He was shocked at his own reaction. This was wrong. _So very wrong._

Eyes wide, he had palmed his hard cock, glancing guiltily at the door. Who knew when Sherlock would be home? His mouth had gone dry. Unbearably hard, John still wasn’t about to have a wank in the sitting room. He adjusted himself and made his way to his own bedroom, taking his laptop with him.

He perched on his bed and continued to read. The Sherlock in the story spread him open, tonguing him until he was open and pliant. _Fuck._ John slammed the computer shut, laying back on his bed, trying to decide whether he needed to get off or take a frigid shower and forget this ever happened. 

He tried the shower. It hardly helped. 

When he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t concentrate on anything else, he broke down and finished the chapter instead.

 _How am I reading this? Getting off on it?_

John wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the psychology. Loads of women had rape fantasies. Not that anyone needed a reason, but, as his first girlfriend had explained, it certainly let them still be the “good girl”, the innocent, the victim. When you were either a virgin or a slut, in people’s eyes, as was all too often the case still, it was easier to accept the pleasure if it wasn’t a choice. At least in your own head.

He found that almost applied here. If you weren’t gay, but found yourself deeply attracted to your impossibly tall, dark, gorgeous flatmate, maybe that was easier to deal with if it wasn’t your idea.  
And they were in the public eye enough that here was a group of people writing all the ways he and his flatmate could get off together. And, Christ, there were a lot of ideas. Plenty where they were just friends, and while it was somewhat charming, he lived that. Why read about fake cases when he spent his life on real ones? But there were so many variants. A few where he was a serial killer Sherlock hadn’t caught yet or, possibly worse, a simpering little submissive begging for Sherlock’s cock. And one where Moriarty had captured him and was keeping him as a pet dressed like, of all things, a cat. He backed out of all those so fast he was surprised the computer didn’t freeze. 

But after that day, he kept coming back to the site. Every time he clicked on one, he swore he would stop. That this was it. But there was something about the ones where he didn’t start anything, didn’t admit anything, where he was just completely overtaken by Sherlock that he just… couldn’t give them up. 

\---

 _May 19_  
12:35 PM  
At first it felt too wrong. It was days before he could bring himself to go back, but eventually he couldn’t keep away. He had long ago set his browser to auto-delete his history as soon as it was closed. Sherlock never had to know. _Who was it hurting, anyway?_

There was one particularly that he kept seeking out. The author updated on Thursdays about whatever had supposedly happened that Wednesday. Always Wednesdays. Usually at night, Sherlock slipped him something, had his way with him and put him to bed. The John in the story woke up none-the-wiser the following day. Of course it was terrifying. It was meant to be. But it was also the hottest thing he had ever read. Comments going on about how twisted it was. But more than a few people liked it.

John didn’t dare comment. What if someone figured out it was him? 

He knew that seemed paranoid, but living with Sherlock bloody Holmes, it didn’t seem like paranoia. More like self-preservation. Besides, what exactly could he say? Everything he thought of was a dead giveaway and snarky to boot. ‘Thanks for the fantasies; I feel like I, more than anyone, should be committed’ or ‘Regretting that interview in our flat, which you have clearly watched. Getting bent over our sofa was described with eerie accuracy.’ _Fuck._

He did decide it was safe enough to click the little heart. He had had 3 wanks in as many days over the thing. Clearly some sort of accolades were well deserved.  
\---

 _May 25_  
11:34 AM  
John had been acting strangely this week. Jumpy. Peculiar little glances. Slamming his laptop shut with alacrity when Sherlock arrived home. And unless Sherlock was mistaken, his showers had gotten awfully long. A bit more recreational. 

Today John agreed to take a double-shift at the clinic, due to a particularly nasty flu going around. A golden opportunity to investigate. The computer was hardly locked anymore. It never deterred Sherlock and John didn’t much care. But today it was. Interesting. Not difficult, though. Recent documents… There was a file just titled with a string of meaningless numbers ‘2389241’. Odd. Not the way John usually filed things. Often there was something labelled ‘private’ or in some cases things like, “No really Sherlock’. Sometimes he even heeded that... 

_11:37 AM_  
The locked file was easy enough to get through. _John’s passwords changed, but never got that much more creative,_ Sherlock thought with a smug smile.

 _11:38 AM_  
The document itself was locked separately. Should it have given him pause? Probably. 

But this wasn’t so easy. In fact nothing that related to John’s life seemed to fit. A further clue still that it had take him most of the day to crack the password. But somehow, the longer it took, the more it seemed like a direct challenge. 

But nothing had prepared him.  
\---  
 _May 25_  
7:15 PM  
Sherlock had been staring at the screen for several minutes since finishing the story. Unsettled. 

Should he be horrified? Flattered? Concerned seemed apropos. 

Surely feeling like a teenager with raging hormones wasn’t on. Lush descriptions of John giving in, growing pliant beneath him when he couldn’t fight the pleasure any more were… intriguing. Although he had thought of John sexually, it was John passionately interested. Even John enthusiastically taking the lead. But suddenly, John desperate for release despite himself held a certain dark appeal.

Sherlock took a few breaths willing his body back under control. He needed to analyse, to understand. There were so many elements to the story itself. What did John find appealing? He wouldn’t have saved it and here no less, if he didn’t like it. Plan to reread it. 

Was it Sherlock himself? If that was the case, he hardly needed the story. They lived together. Here was all the material he needed. The bondage? They had been taken hostage or kidnapped a fair number of times and Sherlock even had to tie him up for a case once. He never reacted unusually to that. He was not shy at all about his opinion that drugs were abhorrent and Sherlock and one of the yarders had to physically restrain him from giving a suspect more than a piece of his mind in a recent case that involved rohypnol, so that seemed right out.

Somehow all the elements together had become something John not only read, but saved. Not only saved, but did so over a week ago. He had used his computer fairly regularly and it was still coming up as a recent document, which is what alerted Sherlock to its presence in the first place. So viewed repeatedly, then. Perhaps, like chemistry, the elements combined to make something vastly different than its original components. So what does he want? If we are both aroused by it, shouldn’t that mean something? Not like asking would really be a good plan, though. _So, John, about that bit of erotica where I drug and bugger you in every room of our flat, anything you think we should give a go?_

 _Yes, that would go over nicely._  
\---

March 25

 _Freedom. That was a huge part of it,_ John decided. _There were no consequences._

In life, they were flatmates and friends. Partners and colleagues on cases. It was comfortable. It was nearly perfect. That was what people saw, what they drew on, so in the story, they kept that. There was no mess. No ‘useless sentiment’ to cloud things. Their friendship was unaltered and so unharmed.

Ridiculous in actual life, since the _rape_ would put quite a damper on everything. John shook his head, laughing at himself. The ridiculousness of it all. 

But some fantasies were fantasies for a reason. They were meant to stay that way!

Still, he found himself wondering more and more what it would be like. To be touched by Sherlock. To have Sherlock’s lips on his.

 _Shit._ This was becoming a problem.

Sherlock had never given any indication of wanting anyone like that, let alone him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you write fics of the sort I mentioned John exiting quickly, please don’t be offended. I am not making any commentary other than this John isn’t turned on by them. No kink shaming of any kind is intended! My characters are uncomfortable with their respective enjoyment of this non-con fic. I dig it and people should write plenty!


	3. Chapter 3

_March 27  
12:15 PM_

Sherlock had been thinking about it on and off for days. Obviously he wasn’t going to drug him.

Well, not again. 

_Certainly not like that!_

You don’t actually want everything you fantasize about. It didn’t take a genius to know that. So how to discover what John _does_ want? 

 

A few hours later, an opportunity to test the waters arrived. Victim found with ligature marks. Clearly antemortem. No signs of anything sexual. Ropes that had been hastily cut and discarded were found nearby, some still in intricate knots. Judging by the marks, some of the rope was missing. 

After trying a few sport shops, Sherlock found the exact type and bought some, while inquiring about any clients purchasing it recently. While they made a lot of sales on it, they were the only shop around that carried it, which narrowed it somewhat. The yard would come with a warrant for the purchasing information later. As Sherlock perused rope in various shops all morning, he pretended not to notice John’s avid interest had little to do with the case. _Excellent._

As it seemed this case might actually involve the police doing their jobs, Sherlock sat in their flat tying and untying knots all that afternoon. 

“We spent so many days building traps, playing pirate on our property as kids. I learned to tie knots Mycroft couldn’t get out of,” Sherlock remarked casually. “Our killer clearly knows his knots, but nothing that distinctively says sailor or survivalist or shibari enthusiast.” 

John managed not to spit out his tea, but it was a near thing. 

Sherlock walked into the kitchen, trailing the rope and cut some for samples, smirking as he went.  
\---

_March 27th  
4:17 PM_

**Potential suspects. Come down and take a look? GL**

They had names, addresses, driver’s licenses, any tickets or past offenses. Sherlock stopped his experimenting with rope fibres and they went off to look through the files. He examined the purchase records, setting some receipts aside as he went, and moved on to the files. After a few minutes, he pulled three and set them in front of Lestrade. 

“Save yourself some work and start with these,“ Sherlock said. 

“Why these three?” Lestrade couldn’t help asking.

Sherlock huffed a sigh. “While it is a possibility that our murderer could be female, it is statistically improbable. Four didn’t purchase enough rope to have done this kind of knotwork. One has a boat and the amount he purchased seems in keeping with regular use, though he’s the first I’d come back to if these,” he tapped the files, “don’t pan out. Include him if you like. But this top one, Smitt, is more likely. His history of violence seems promising.” 

Just then an officer ducked her head in. “Sir, the blood sample on the rope doesn’t match the victim’s. Could be the murderer’s.”

“Thanks, Kwon, I’ll let them know as soon as we have something for them to compare with.“

As it turned out, the murderer was in fact one of three Sherlock had suggested. When the police came to question Smitt, he ran. His flat had pictures of the victim and two others besides. When he was backed into a corner, he confessed. He had cut himself while cutting the rope. When he noticed the blood, he cut off the rope before dumping the victim, and he thought he took the evidence with him. 

Lestrade texted as soon as they had him in custody. 

In the post case glow, Sherlock made his decision. He could dance around the issue, gauge John’s reactions to everything under the sun, but why? They were men of action. John was clearly aroused by him in some fashion and by the very nature of the story, it seemed logical that Sherlock make the first move. He backed John against the door, ignoring John’s startled face and bent down to kiss him, pining John’s arms at his sides lightly. He was a soldier, he could have broken the hold. But he didn’t. One deep kiss, just long enough to test. 

John kissed back.

“Sherlock? W..what are you doing?” John said as they broke apart. He didn’t sound angry. Just confused. Possibly awed. 

_That was good, then._

“Thought I’d try something new. You’re always on about how I shouldn’t ignore what my body wants. That it isn’t all transport.” Sherlock said, smoothing a hand through John’s hair. “Perhaps I should have asked, but lately, I observed signs that you’d be amenable.”  
\---

 _Sherlock kissed him. Actually kissed him._ “How did you...?” John managed, but he trailed off, instead affirming the supposition with an avid, “Yes,” before pulling Sherlock down in another kiss. Everything was a surprise today. The rope, the kiss, his own boldness. Of course he wasn’t generally shy, but he had been about this, about shifting anything with Sherlock. There were too many ways it could go wrong, get awkward. But somehow, once it was happening, his reticence melted away.

It could have been strange. Should have been, with Sherlock pressed against him. He could feel Sherlock hardening against him as they had the most intense… well, snog against the door, really. He pulled back just a bit, searched his flatmate’s eyes, “You want this? Not just some kind of experiment?” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock smiled down at him. “So do you,” he said, slotting his thigh against John’s hardness.

It was surprisingly fine.

As Sherlock bent down to kiss him again, he couldn’t help pressing himself more fully against him. John moaned, opening his mouth to deepen their kiss as Sherlock began thrusting against him. The drag of that thigh against him, the added friction of their clothes, it felt far too good. Better than it had been in his head, to be honest. And more like sex than anything fully clothed should feel.

Sherlock’s kisses were hard and demanding. John couldn’t recall ever being kissed like that before. Between his fantasising this week and now Sherlock actually here, pressing against him, holding him here, kissing him like this, touching him, it was all too much. 

“Sherlock,” John cried out, startled by the force of his own pleasure. He shuddered in Sherlock’s grasp, and moments later, Sherlock was panting against him, hips moving erratically as he sought his climax as well. 

Christ, they weren’t even out of their clothes. Perhaps John ought to have been embarrassed, but considering that Sherlock came just as he did and continued to look at him as though he wanted to devour him, it was hard to feel anything but satisfied. And a bit sticky. 

Sherlock kissed him again, before pulling back. “Look at you. Such a gorgeous mess for me,” he said, palming John’s oversensitive cock through his trousers. John drew in a shaky breath and opened his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. They were still dark with desire, but his mouth quirked as he added, “And it isn’t even Wednesday.”

John felt color rise to his cheeks. “You… you absolute prick!”

“John,” Sherlock began, but was interrupted, John finally breaking Sherlock’s hold on his arms. He pushed Sherlock, not hard, just enough so he could slip past, put some space between them. 

“You swore this wasn’t some kind of experiment.” He intended to sound angry. He _was_ angry, wasn’t he? But his voice just sounded defeated. 

“It wasn’t.” Sherlock said simply. “Just because your choice of reading material made it fairly plain that you’d accept my advances doesn’t negate the desire to make them in the first place. It didn’t seem you’d want that before… then it did. That’s all that’s changed.”

John looked down, then back at Sherlock. “We should talk about this.”

“I thought that was exactly what we were doing,” Sherlock said, looking genuinely perplexed. “You seemed to like that well enough. _I_ certainly did. The only way in which I would view it as an experiment is that I hope the results are replicable. I could see a great deal of time spent playing with the variables. So what exactly is the problem?” 

“I…”

“We should get cleaned up. Shower? Please?”

John nodded and nearly laughed. At himself. At this whole crazy week. At how easily things moved from terribly wrong to perfectly right. “Yes. Alright.”

And somehow it was as simple as that. Of course they had things to hash out, boundaries to discuss, but for now, Sherlock led the way and John followed. 

As always.


End file.
